November 17, 2009

FREUD, FISH PONDS, MEMENTO MORI–PART ONE

It’s fall. The leaves are turning, and it makes me sad. Not for the same reasons that lead humans to feel melancholy in the fall—thoughts of loved ones and friends who are no more, the paradox of death in beauty, etc.

No, for reasons I can’t understand—after all, I’m a dog–all the great smells that come with autumn, and the wonderful, cooler weather mean nothing to the mister and missus. No, that’s not true. It means something to them, but something all wrong. Soon, they’ll start packing for our trip south.

Every year at this time, the mister takes out the fountain in the back yard. It operates in a small pond, and day and night it runs all summer. He calls it “the heart and soul of our modest establishment.” He says sitting next to the fountain is his favorite place to have a rob roy before dinner. Birds love the pond. They use it for bathing.

The neighborhood cats also love it, but not to bathe in. Cats are the reason for one of my jobs here–to provide security for the birds. The missus is very big on birds, and I’m happy to oblige. Squirrels are my thing—but I always fail to catch them.

The real work related to the pond and fountain isn’t done in the fall, but in the spring. The mister says everyone here has work to do of this kind, come May. Where we live he calls Ozzie and Harriet country, with lots of little faux water falls and cascades, rivulets, pools and fountains.

He says such doodads, and the Old English lettering on the town’s gentrified billboard up on Woodward make our Ozzie-Harriet status clear to all. Not to mention street signs that identify certain blocks as a “historical district.” He says any less vigilant attention to appearances would send our burgeoning gay community into a tizzy.

I love the signs too. They have concrete supports perfect for posting p-mail.